


The Losing Side

by novemberhush



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, But go with me anyway if you would, But hang in there, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock's POV, The fluff shows up eventually, This takes place whenever you think it takes place, Which basically means I have no idea when it takes place, some more angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-13 23:36:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7990381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novemberhush/pseuds/novemberhush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side."</p><p>Sherlock Holmes had never expected to find himself on the losing side. </p><p>But then, he'd never bargained on John Watson, had he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Losing Side

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! Okay, so I've shipped Johnlock from the very start of the BBC/Mofftiss version (and Holmes and Watson in general long before that), but only started reading the fanfic recently (I've only been reading fanfic at all for less than a year). I discovered some wonderful writers in this fandom (I practically stalked Goddess_of_the_Night! Seriously, go check out her stuff!) and found myself drowning in feels so deep I was moved to put pen to paper and write my own little story for these two glorious idiots. I hope you find some enjoyment in it. Thanks for reading and come say hello in the comments section. Thanks also to Sairyn and writingtoreachyou for casting their blessed eyes over this for any glaring mistakes and for all their suggestions. Sadly none of the characters herein belong to me, more's the pity. I'm just borrowing them for a while.

Sherlock heard the familiar tread of his ... what? Flatmate? Friend? Former both? _Quite_ _possibly_ , he ruminated. Then shook the troubling thought away. John, he thought. _His_ John, coming down the stairs from his room. Except he wasn't _his_ John, was he? Not in any real sense of the word. Only in Sherlock's head was he his John. And if he'd been anywhere near as clever as he deemed himself, that's exactly where Sherlock would’ve kept that interesting, but ultimately irrelevant, little tidbit; in his head, never to be spoken of to anyone, much less John himself. But he'd found he couldn't help himself.

“Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side,” Sherlock had pontificated merrily, thinking himself oh so above it all, above something so gallingly moronic and unoriginal and _ordinary_ as _feelings_. So of course he had never anticipated finding himself on the losing side. But then, he hadn't bargained on ex-army captain, Dr. John H. Watson, formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, had he?

Sentiment, it seemed, once stirred, didn't like to sit idly by doing nothing. Not when it could be inducing perfectly sensible, intelligent, rational men to lose their heads and declare themselves to their best friend in the world; their _only_ friend in the world. But the only one he'd ever needed. Or wanted. And Sherlock Holmes didn't need or want anyone. Until John. And now he'd gone and spoiled it. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," he canted to himself for the second time in less than twenty four hours, so low it was barely audible.

He had told John he loved him. And John had smiled - that gorgeous, beautiful, heart-stopping, _brain-stopping_ smile - and looked happy! Had _been_ happy. At first. Before he had told Sherlock he loved him too (oh, joy incomparable!), of course he did, he was his best mate (and, really, how was one _not_ to get confused when friendship became associated, however tangentially, with mating, hmm?) and the closest thing he had to a brother. And the smile that Sherlock had found himself wearing at John's initially seemingly reciprocal feelings had faltered and before he could stop himself, before he could think of the possible consequences of explaining himself, of clearing up the miscommunication between them, he had stammered out, "No ... no, you don't understand, John. I don't mean as a friend or brother, although you're the only one of the former I've ever had and would be a damn sight better as the latter than the one I got lumbered with. I meant I'm _in_ love with you."

"John?" he had whispered as the former soldier had went utterly still, more still than Sherlock had ever seen him before, his face for once completely unreadable. And then John had looked at him. With _that_ look on his face. The one Donovan and Anderson and every other bloody person on the planet gave him, or so it felt. The one that said he was a freak. Except ... no, it wasn't that look. Not quite. Even now, John (dear, _dear_ John) wouldn't give him _that_ look. But it was a close run thing.

And then it was John's turn to stammer. "You .... I ... Sherlock ... I can't ... I don't ... I'm not ... I have to go.”

And go he did, executing a left turn so precise he could have been back on the parade ground with the regimental sergeant major barking orders - Sherlock had half expected him to salute - and then he had bolted. Shot straight out the door and down the stairs, not even pausing to lift his coat, barrelling out into the dusk of Baker Street in a blind panic, running away. From Sherlock. From the freak. The freak who loved him.

Sherlock could almost have found it funny. Almost. If his gallingly moronic, unoriginal, _ordinary_ heart hadn't been breaking. Hadn't somehow succeeded in dropping to his stomach like the stone he had tried to make it for so long whilst simultaneously rising to lodge itself in his throat, as if to choke the very breath from his body. There was a vaguely familiar wetness to his eyes he recalled from the depths of childhood, from before Mycroft had chided it out of him. (“Really, Sherlock, it's just a dog. I hardly think it merits a melodramatic, _emotional_ disemboguement of this magnitude and vulgarity. It seems a little excessive even for you, brother mine.”)

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" he had shouted to the room that still smelled of that (wonderful, intoxicating) cheap aftershave John insisted on wearing, punctuating each word with a thump to his head from the heel of his hand.

He'd got it wrong! He'd got it so wrong. Obviously. Of course John didn't feel that way about him, _of course_ he didn't! How could he? How could anyone? How could Sherlock have ever thought he had? John was good and kind and honest, and Sherlock was ... Sherlock. Cold, undeserving, and destined to always be alone. How could he have ever thought any different? Sentiment, of course. It sneaked its way past your every carefully constructed defence. Wormed itself under every deliberately chosen piece of armour you clothed yourself in. Stripped you of every weapon in the arsenal you build to protect yourself. Got right in close and reminded you that, yes, you do have a heart, even you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. And then it stabbed you in it. Repeatedly. Made you want things you couldn't have, could never have. Made you _need_.

Sherlock had had John's friendship, his precious friendship, and sentiment (God, how he _loathed_ the very word!) had made him greedy, made him hope for more, and now he had got what he deserved. He had ruined everything. John was gone, maybe never to return, _and he had ruined everything._

He should have known better. Everyone leaves in the end. Everyone. But it had never mattered so much before, never hurt as much before ... John. John was the only one who had ever mattered.

And now he was coming down the stairs, having returned to the flat mere minutes ago, in the early hours of the morning, and gone to his room without so much as a word to Sherlock. It was time to face the music, but there would be no dancing, Sherlock suspected. Pity. He would have quite liked to dance with John Watson. Not just figuratively, like he thought they'd been doing from day one, but literally. Holding him close, feeling those sure, (mostly) steady hands around him, feeling his own hands on one of those atrocious (adorable) jumpers John was so fond of wearing, before they perhaps slipped underneath it to clasp warm, blessed skin... _no! Stop it!_ A pipe dream, nothing more, conjured up by that demon Sentiment to torture him with visions of what could never be.

He heard the door to the living room open and turned, bracing himself for whatever was to come. The first thing his eyes lighted on was the hold-all in John's left hand. Ah, so that's how it was to be then. He was leaving. Right. Of course. And it was all Sherlock's fault. He had finally found John's breaking point, said the one thing guaranteed to drive him away. And yet still sentiment refused to loosen its grip on him, drove him ever onwards into the damnable mire of want and need and hope and love and _feelings_.

"I'm sorry I ruined it," he blurted out, taking two steps towards this impossible (no, _improbable_ ) man, his conductor of light, before remembering himself and retreating back one again. But the words would not retreat, tumbling over each other in their hurry to be out of him, refusing to go unsaid if this was to be the last opportunity for their intended recipient to ever hear them.

"It was just ... You always looked happy to see me. Even when you were frustrated, exasperated, disappointed, angry, _furious_ with me, you still looked happy to see me beneath it all. And no one's ever looked at me like that before. No one. Not really. And it was disconcerting at first, uncomfortable even ... and then it wasn't. It was ... nice. I found I liked having someone who was happy to see me. No, that's not right. I found I was happy _you_ were the one who was happy to see me. _You_ , John. Only you. Always you. And it made me think, that is, it made me _hope_..."

He had meant to spit that word out, 'hope', like it was something foul and rotten and sickening in his mouth, but it didn't come out like that. It came out sounding small and broken and fragile. It came out sounding how Sherlock felt in that moment. But still the words were not done with him and he ploughed on.

"Wishful thinking, that's all it was, John. But that's the most dangerous kind. Makes you see things that aren't really there and twist others into something they're not, something they never were or could ever be. But it's seductive. It whispers in your ear until it nearly drives you mad, and, as you know, that's not a particularly long drive for me."

Sherlock tried to smile, but he knew it came out ugly, a mockery of a smile and the man trying to form one.

"Sentiment, John. I've told you before, I'm better off without it. I managed before, I'll manage again. I still have The Work. I'd still like to have you as my friend, if you think you could manage that. If you'll stay, I promise there will be no repetition of those sentiments which were last night so disgusting to you."

And suddenly John was laughing! Uproariously! As if Sherlock Holmes baring his soul like some... some common and garden variety _idiot_ was the funniest bloody thing he had ever witnessed! _Perhaps it is_ , a voice sounding suspiciously like Mycroft insinuated in Sherlock's ear.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh, really, I didn't. But did you just paraphrase _Mr_. _Darcy?_  Did you, _Sherlock Holmes_ , self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath, Mr. I-Don't-Do-Emotions, actually just paraphrase one of the most famous literary romantic heroes _of all time?_ "

"I don't know. Did I?"

"Well, you're the genius, you tell me."

"You said 'literary romantic hero' which leads me to conclude this aforementioned Mr. Darcy is from some _novel_ or other," and here he definitely spat the offending word out, "and, really, John, you know I can't stand to read anything that isn't non-fiction."

"From 'some novel or other'?? You really mean to tell me you've never heard of Mr. Darcy? 'Pride and Prejudice'? Colin 'every woman remembers where she was the first time she saw him in that sodding wet shirt' _bloody_ Firth??"

John was giving him that old familiar 'I can't believe I'm hearing this right' look and Sherlock's treacherous heart ached within him, love threatening to fill the traitor fit to burst, at the sight.

Somehow he found his tongue again, co-conspirator in this treason against him, and shrugged, "I probably deleted it."

"Probably deleted..." John huffed out a laugh, rolling his eyes, his astounding, remarkable eyes, before settling them on Sherlock with a look he couldn't read. Sherlock always knew when those eyes were on him, he felt their gaze like a physical weight, felt his own eyes drawn irresistibly to meet them. He had read many things in them before; fear, anger, courage, determination, sympathy, solidarity, astonishment, affection and so much more besides. This time he saw amusement and fondness and ... what? _Something_. Something he had glimpsed before and never quite fathomed. Something that had poked and prodded at his mind until he had let it in. And still he hadn't been able to name it, couldn't pin it to the dissecting mat and take it apart piece by piece, scrutinising and classifying as he went. No, it wasn't until it had snaked its way down to his heart, had settled, permanently he suspected, in his chest, warm and snug, that he had begun to think, to _hope_ , he knew what that something in John's eyes was. But John had snuffed out that hope last night, as easily as he snuffed out the candle Angelo continued to place between them on their table whenever they (John) ate at his restaurant. _Hadn't he?_

It was John who broke the silence that had fallen between them like a loaded gun, waiting to see who would pick it up.

"It's fitting, I suppose."

Sherlock started at the words, as if indeed at the report of a gun.

"Hmm? It is?" he asked, completely lost. He shook his head, trying to clear the clouds of fog that had descended upon his brain, before drawing himself up to his full height and demanding imperiously, "What is?"

He was Sherlock bloody Holmes, for God's sake! He had to get hold of himself.

"You quoting Mr. Darcy."

This time it was Sherlock who rolled his eyes. "Him again!"

John smirked. "Yes, him again."

  
He took a step forward and Sherlock stiffened. He was still ... emotional. Horribly, terrifyingly, revoltingly emotional and proximity was dangerous when he was in that state. He had promised John if he would stay, _if he would only stay_ , he would suppress these feelings he had for him, would conduct himself as a friend, and only a friend. But if John got too close right now he might lose his head again and do something irredeemably stupid, something irreparably damaging, something like kissing him. And then John would most certainly leave and never come back.

But John was speaking again.

"His first attempt at declaring himself to his beloved didn't go the way he wanted either."

Sherlock flushed with embarrassment, feeling the sting of rejection all over again.

"Yes, well, I was rather hoping we could agree to never again speak of the ridiculous admission I burdened you with last night."

"Sherlock, you're doing it again, you're not listening to me." Another step forward.

"On the contrary, Dr. Watson, I heard you loud and clear last night as you practically sprinted out of here when you heard my confession. And quite right, too. Probably the most intelligent thing you've ever done, running from me."

"Sherlock..."

"No, it's fine. It's all fine. I don't know what I was thinking. Clearly I _wasn’t_ thinking..." he trailed off, his brain trying to tell him something. What was it? Oh. _Oh_. "You said 'first attempt'. Mr. Darrow's..."

"Darcy's." That fond, exasperated look again. Another step forward.

"... Darcy's ' _first_ attempt'. Which would suggest he made more than one..."

"It would, wouldn't it?" Another step. The smile that meant Sherlock had got something right. “Excellent deduction. You should be a detective or something.” Another step.

Sherlock swallowed heavily, blinked several times in rapid succession, ignored John's flippancy in favour of his nearness. "And... his - his second attempt? That proved successful?"

Another step. The bag in John's left hand dropped to the floor with a dull thud, scarcely discernible over the thudding of Sherlock's mutinous (wise, brilliant) heart. Another step. Within arm's reach now. Perilously close to being grabbed and kissed to within an inch of his life.

"Yes, Sherlock," he whispered, "that proved successful." One last step and now arms were going around Sherlock's neck and he couldn't for the life of him remember how to breathe.

" _John_..."

"God, I love the way you say my name."

And then lips, warm and soft, were being pressed against his, slow and sure and maddeningly good. But eventually even his transport required oxygen and they drew apart reluctantly, Sherlock gasping in huge lungfuls of air, before rushing forward again to lay claim to those ludicrously luscious lips once more. Strong, capable hands threaded through his hair and he moaned, breaking the kiss and clutching John, _his_ John, to him like he never meant to let go. He wasn't entirely sure he could even if he wanted to. Which he very much did not.

"John... _John_ ... So ... you'll stay?" He hated the doubt in his own voice, but he couldn't take anything for granted, not where John was concerned. He had to be sure.

To say the answering giggle unnerved him slightly would be somewhat of an understatement.

"You idiot. You absolute idiot. What is it you always upbraid people with? 'You _see_ , you just don't _observe_ '!"

He pulled back far enough to look John in the eye, hoping his bewilderment at his own words being turned against him was evident enough on his face.

"Sherlock, don't you see? Your first attempt _was_ successful, you pillock. Just not right away, that's all. I just ... when you told me you were in love with me, well, it came as a bit of a shock, I can tell you. You told me you were married to your work, that you didn't do feelings or relationships, you seemed indifferent to sex, and then suddenly you're telling me you're in love with me. And I panicked. Because all those feelings I'd been pushing down, burying so deep within myself, were hurtling towards the surface and I'd never been so scared in my life. I was finally getting everything I wanted - and it terrified me. What if it wasn't what I really wanted after all and it messed up our friendship? Or what if it _was_ what I really wanted, but you changed your mind, realised you deserved better? How would I cope then? So I ran. Ran from the very thing I had been running _towards_ from the day we met. Ran from you. And that's just stupid. Because everyone knows when we run, we run together."

They grinned at each other and Sherlock knew the same memories that were flashing through his brain - rooftop chases, pursuits down darkened alleys, employing evasive manoeuvres to escape criminals, the press, and even, on occasion, the police - were flashing through John's as well.

"So then I ran home, ran back to you, and here I am. I'm not leaving, Sherlock. I never was."

Sherlock smiled and leaned in for another kiss, but something pulled him up short. "So why the bag? If you were never leaving, why did you come downstairs from your room with a bag in your hand?"

"You're still not getting it, are you? I'm not leaving, Sherlock, I'm moving in. I'm moving into my new bedroom. _Our_ bedroom. If you're up for it."

"People might talk." Sherlock could barely contain the smile that threatened to split his face in two.

"People do little else. Besides, everyone already thinks we're shagging. Mrs. Hudson’s probably been planning the wedding since the moment I moved in and you know the Yard have a pool going on when we'll name the day. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if Mycroft was only half joking when he asked if a happy announcement was to be expected. No one's going to bat an eyelid if we make it official. So, what do you say?"

"I say whoever it was this Mr. Darvey..."

"Darcy."

"... Darcy was pursuing they weren't a patch on my ... boyfriend?" Sherlock said the word like he was trying it on for size. He found he rather liked the way it fit.

"Christ, I've _been_ a boyfriend, but I've never had one before," John muttered, his eyes flitting off to the side, considering, before lifting to Sherlock's with a smile once more. "I think I'm going to like it."

"I must confess this will be my first experience of either," Sherlock admitted, blushing and tentative, eyes downcast.

He felt John's arms tighten reflexively around him and he relaxed into them again. This was John. He wouldn't judge Sherlock, not for this.

"I have my way and it'll be your _last_ experience of either as well," John purred, before his own words struck him and he added, "Wait, I meant that to come out romantic, not threatening!"

Sherlock laughed and swooped in for another kiss. "I assure you, John, I comprehended your sentiment perfectly."

"I'm sorry, what was that?” John teased, voice unmistakably fond. “Sherlock Holmes comprehending sentiment? Will wonders never cease?!"

"Oh, do shut up and come here and do that thing again. That, ah - thing that you did. With your tongue. That was, um … good."

John complied happily and it was several minutes before Sherlock's brain came back online again enough for him to pull John to him and whisper in his ear, " I'll wager Mr. Darnley..."

"Darcy."

"... Darcy never had to put up with the level of ‘sass’, I believe our American cousins call it, from his _beloved_ , that I do."

"Actually, you'd be surprised."

"I doubt it, John. I'm rarely surprised."

"Yes, well, I'll wager Elizabeth Bennet never had to put up with severed toes in the veg drawer," John grumbled, under his breath.

"How many times do I have to tell you, John! That was for a very important experiment! For science, Joh..."

"Oh, shut up, you lanky git!” John retorted. “If it's science you're interested in, get down here and let your doctor teach you a little something about biology.”

“I suspect the General Medical Council of the United Kingdom has rules against that sort of thing,” Sherlock intoned drolly.

“You're Sherlock Holmes, you show up to Buckingham Palace with no pants on, you don't give a toss about rules,” John growled before pulling Sherlock down into another deep kiss that made _their_ toes curl.

  
“What does all your scientific research have to say about that then?” John enquired, flushed and breathless, when they finally came up for air again.

"Chemistry, John," Sherlock mumbled against his lips. "It's all about chemistry."

And somehow the good doctor couldn't find it within himself to disagree. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for making it this far! I hope you didn't get so bored you started shooting holes in the wall! For anyone who's interested in knowing these things, the whole 'Pride and Prejudice' thing just happened! It was not in the original plan, such as it was, at all! But then Sherlock started speaking and Mr. Darcy's words came out and so I just went with it! And, wow, but I like exclamation marks! Anyway, thanks for reading. Come say hi in the comments or on tumblr, where I'm also known as novemberhush. All the best to you. :-)


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